


The King's Tale

by ellymelly



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Special, Gen, Kinda RPF?, What was I drinking when I wrote this?, Whoffaldi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 03:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6783553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellymelly/pseuds/ellymelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brand new 12th Doctor is out to solve an English mystery and who better to help than Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes? Except... They're fictional creations. Instead, he winds up kidnapping two confused actors (Benedict and Martin) for a romp through December 1700.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King's Tale

“...but _why_ are we crashing?” A mad, significantly older version of the Doctor pierced straight through the room with those stormy eyes of his. He was either terrified or in the grip of a colossal sugar rush. Time Lord energy made his veins pop out from his skin, giving off a golden glow as though he were a strange species of sea creature, probing the depths with a lantern held to the eternal night.

Sadly his 'lantern' was currently falling from the sky, the Tardis tumbling through galaxies and time zones with absolutely no regard for 'the right way to go about things'. The Ponds would have slapped him for such mayhem, especially the archaeologist. River... nah, she should have taken the controls and flown the old girl to a peaceful lagoon with cabana boys and cocktails with those little umbrella's sticking out of -

The doctor didn't even see the hand coming toward him. All he felt was a rush of burning energy as Clara's hand swatted him sharply, bringing his focus back to the room.

Shocked, the Doctor lifted his fingers to his cheek and rubbed it tenderly. “Aw, what was tha' for?”

“Crashing. Remember?” She gestured at the console which was aglow with angry lights. The centre column of symbols was spinning wildly, sending snaps of electricity toward the walls. “Sort of think you should do something about it.”

“About what?” the Doctor looked curiously at all the shiny buttons and lights.

Clara was going to lose her mind in a minute. “Bloody hell, is it like this every time you regenerate?” She shoved the Doctor in the direction of the main controls. “Seriously, it's like a bit of your brain gets ripped off when your body is replaced-”

“Time Lord bodies aren't – 'replaced',” he argued, with an entirely new air of theatrics. He sounded like a Shakespearean actor thieved from the London Stage, all arms and torso expressing every word as though it were a dying thrust. “They're regrown, every molecule rearranged into a new design, feeding off the heart of the Tardis, wrapping itself around the very fabric of time and – ow! You hit me again!!!”

“Crashing!” Clara shouted at him.

“Hey... what are you doing?” the Doctor asked in alarm, as Clara leaped at the controls, clutching onto one of the long levers with a red handle.

“More than you, at the present. I figure, if a mad runt of the Time Lord litter can run away with a Tardis, then a cleverer than average human split into a billion pieces across all of space and time can probably fly one too.” Clara got herself ready to pull as the ship lurched to the side again, all its pieces groaning as the lever locked into place. Sparks erupted from the wall beside her as wires snapped free. “ I guess it's now or never...”

“Both of those are terribly absolute. I don't like absolutes.”

“You're grey, by the way.”

“Dull?”

“No. Literally – you've got a lot of...” she gestured at his head.

The Doctor reached up and padded his hair, finding it wiry and in places – thinner than he'd like. “Time Lord humour, I presume -”

He didn't get to finish that thought as the whole Tardis flipped over, throwing him across the room and into a support beam. Clara was fine, hanging from one of the control sticks. “Oh god – so typical!” she growled, swinging herself across the console to reach another button which she hit with her fist sending the Tardis straight toward some unsuspecting planet and time zone.

The Tardis landed gracefully in the middle of a well kept lawn, pressing into it an unwelcome box-shape. She sighed gently, her engines petering out in a soft gasp. Emergency lighting flicked on while the time vortex energy set about repairing whatever mayhem the Doctor had inflicted on her engines.

Clara was strewn over the console, her arms and legs draped over the sides like a quilt covering a bed. She groaned, lifting her head up. “Bloody hell, eh? Nice landing. No obvious fire or hull breeches. Yeah I can fly. Bet  _he_ didn't do any better on is first joy ride – oh...” Clara cast her gaze down to the body of her companion. “Dammit. Doctor?”

She hopped off and darted across to the far side of the room, kneeling down to him. “Oy!” Clara slapped him hard.

The Doctor groaned, lifting his hands up to hide his face. “Enough with the slapping. You'll dent my new face.” he peered through his fingers at her. “Blimey, you always been that young?”

“Great.” Clara grabbed hold of his wrists, hauling him onto his feet. “Thousands of years and finally, you become a grown up.”

“I'm not sure about this bow tie...” he prodded it.

“How would you feel about a fez?”

“LOVE a fez!” he perked up. “Is there a fez?”

Clara shook her head. “No. You're never getting a fez.”

The Doctor sulked, stalking around the Tardis, looking for a mirror. He wanted to know what this new version of himself looked like. “They shouldn't have done that you know – given me another set of regenerations. It's against the Time Lord rules – though technically speaking if you had enough Time Vortex energy you could live essentially forever. We're not meant to do that – can you imagine the potential damage to the universe? Much too dangerous.”

“I don't get it.” Clara replied, holding a mirror up for the Doctor. He reached for it.

“One individual written into all of history? You saw the mess I'm going to leave when I die – every psychopath in the universe would be after someone who'd seen everything. They could re-write time or destroy – grey!” he exclaimed, tugging at his distinctly peppered hair. “Is this their idea of getting square with me? Start me at the end!”

“It's, not that bad.” Clara patted him on the shoulder. “I mean, grey suits you, right? You're a good few thousand years old it seems only fair that you look a bit more like your age.”

“You sound like River,” he sighed, putting the mirror down. “Maybe it'll fix itself up. Time Energy's not set yet.” The Doctor held up his hand, showing her the faint golden glow still coming off his skin. “Right, now, did you say something about crashing?”

“Well.” she leaned against the door, “technically I think we landed in the end.”

“Good, good – love it when it does that.”

*~*~*

“England?” Clara hopped out of the Tardis and tested the lovely, thick lawn beneath her shoes. “Does your Tardis have some kind of homing beacon on it or something? We always seem to end up back here. Seems odd to me, considering how vast the universe is.”

“Safest place!” The Doctor peeked his head out from the door of the Tardis. He'd changed – mostly because he didn't have a choice. This new body of his was shorter with slender shoulders and an unassuming leg length. He was practically human looking.

“Really, you're going to wear that?” Clara lofted her eyebrow as he emerged.

That carefree grin of the older Doctor was gone, replaced with a slightly annoyed, more serious expression. The eyebrows were possibly to blame. Something about the way they curved up and down like a wave caught in rock. “Is there something wrong?”

“You look like a public servant,” she folded her arms. “A slightly mean one.”

“Most overlooked populace in the universe. I'm practically invisible.”

“One that's had a rather long and arduous life full of sensible jumpers, cups of tea and chocolate covered biscuits.”

“Now come on lass, I think we'll both agree that I've 'ad enough colour in my past outfits to clothe a Swedish Circus. Celery – pretty sure I wore celery once.”

“You've got an accent.”

“Wha'?”

“Scottish. You're _Scottish_.”

“Alien,” he corrected. “From Gallifrey – last of the Time Lords – in this leg of the universe. I'm not Scottish.”

“ _Very_ Scottish. Anyway, this is nice...” she lifted her arms to the quaint stone castle in front of them. It was surrounded by rambling roses, strangling the corners of the building with flashes of colour. The low walls that divided up the garden were green with moss and she could smell lavender in the air. “Friend of yours live here?” Clara looked up at the blue sky. It was quiet – no planes or engines. “Another one of your admirers?”

“1700 – or 1062 if you want to use the Burmese calendar, lovely year. Lots of horses, little bit of civil unrest – mostly moral progress – _just_ missed the big earthquake on the other side of the pond. Bit of a mess over there still but not to worry, humans never learn and the cities will all be back soon. _Slight_ chance of a storm in the afternoon. No one's quite sure who's meant to be next in line for the throne, technically I think I might have a claim.”

“Oh my god, have you become Doctor-wiki, ground zero for irrelevant facts?”

“Wikipedia is based on me. Wales and Sanger – what a laugh they were. Oh 'ello!”

A small child that had been racing over the grass ploughed straight into him, bouncing off the Doctor. She landed on the grass and peered up. “Those are strange clothes...” the ten year old observed politely.

“They are _sensible_ clothes. Is this Charleston House?” the Doctor asked, picking the little girl up and setting her back on her feet. “Good – good, lovely place. Wait – why isn't it snowing?”

“Snowing?” the girl frowned. “It only snows in December.”

The Doctor had a better look around at the garden. “Oh – this is Spring. My mistake. We're a bit early.”

“Early?” Clara narrowed her eyes at the Doctor. “We just crashed here.”

“Yes, several months – not too bad. Is that what I am now, 'early'? Not sure I approve of that. Much rather to be late you know, 'specially to parties. You miss all that awkward handshaking inquisition. What's your name?” he asked the little girl.

“Lady Lydia King,” she replied, dusting the grass off herself. She was certainly the child of a wealthy family. Her blond ringlets bounced as she looked back toward the house.

“That's a lovely name, isn't it Doctor? Doctor...” Clara prodded the Doctor. “You all right?”

“Lydia King?” the Doctor whispered, his blue eyes pale as ice. “Apologies Lady King. Run along back to the house now.”

“You are not going to stay?” she asked.

“No. We're much too early but don't worry, we'll be back later – with tea and biscuits I promise.”

As the little girl ran off back toward the house and the Doctor and Clara returned to the Tardis, the bells in the village below rang out.

“Is that it then?” Clara asked, slumping into a couch that had appeared from nowhere in the Tardis. She'd noticed that things in the control room had started to change. It was taking on a reddish hue as though it had consumed too much acid in a night club and she was absolutely certain that there were strange vines growing out of the ceiling. “We barely even said hello.”

“That was 1666,” the Doctor started pressing things on the console. He seemed to have a better idea what he was doing now, pacing around. “We're after December 24th, 1700 – the night the lights in Charleston House go out.”

“That sounds – ominous.”

“Oh ominous isn't the half of it,” the Doctor spun around and sat on the console. “A large country manor, a dozen family members, twice as many staff. Everyone is staying for Christmas when suddenly, in a peaceful part of the world, they all vanish without a trace – all except for Lady Lydia King.”

Clara stared at him for quite a while until he frowned at her.

“Is there something wrong?”

“I'm just trying to catch up,” she replied. “You've had a bit of a nasty experience, scarring I'm sure. Shouldn't you lay down for a while, rest until your regeneration is finished and I don't know, take a bath or something while you process the fact that you had a four hundred year close encounter with your lost home world?”

The Doctor looked nothing short of puzzled. “Why?”

She shrugged.

“Nah – Christmas. Mystery. Time travel – come on!”

*~*~*

“All quiet on set. That means you too! I can hear you eating those sandwiches from all the way over here.” A shrew-like woman lifted her hand, counting down the seconds before the cameras on set started rolling again.

Cardiff was miserable. A general drizzle of rain started and stopped outside the window creating hell for the continuity team who wanted to shut the blinds. The actors were more concerned about the cold, escaping back to their dressing rooms as soon as 'cut' was yelled for the final time.

Martin Freeman was only interested in the mug of tea waiting for him back in his room. Three days into the shoot and he was starting to remember why he preferred The Hobbit. What wasn't to like? Well, except for the extra hair they added to his feet so half the world thought he was a species of gorilla.

“Tea?”

“Oh yes, excellent. Mmm...” he replied, as a cup and saucer were extended in his direction. Without paying the slightest attention to his surrounds, Martin took the tea from Clara and wandered across the Tardis until he found the couch. It was comfy and much nicer than the one in his room. He paused, frowning into his tea. He was meant to be in his room. Slowly, Martin looked up and saw a young woman in front of him, waving slowly. He waved back, took a slow sip of tea and then yelped, standing up so fast he spilled his drink everywhere. “I – think I'm in the wrong room!”

“This is – so cool...” Clara couldn't stop herself grinning. She was trying very hard not to turn into a fangirl but it was a battle that she was losing. Hanging out with an alien and touring the galaxy was one thing – Martin Freeman was quite another.

Martin started looking around the room. The more he panned, the more he frowned. “Now this doesn't look like the set at all. It's very – retro and smells a lot like burnt toast.”

“That was me!” The Doctor appeared from downstairs, carrying a tray of blackened toast up with a side of jam. Clara waved him away. “Welcome aboard, Doctor. Toast?”

Martin visibly relaxed. “Yeah, I see. Nice one. Who set me up this time? Was it Judy from PR? She threatened she'd get me back after I wasted twenty minutes of footage trying to pronounce that whatchamecallit molecule thingy in episode four.”

“It wasn't Judy,” a deep voice rumbled out of the corner of the room. Benedict Cumberbatch was folded up on the floor, his knees pulled to his chest and several cups of untouched tea littered around him with the remains of biscuits. His unkempt, curled hair looked as though it had spent all night in a storm. Actually, his entire person appeared under the weather. He'd been sitting there for a while.

“Is this where you've spent the afternoon then, hiding in here?” Martin lightly accused, sitting back down on the couch to sip his tea. “They've been looking for you for hours to finish off blocking.”

“Martin. We're in the process of being kidnapped,” Benedict tried to break the news to his colleague as directly as possible. “Meet our captors – the lovely Clara-”

“Hi!” Clara waved at Martin again, still grinning madly. “Biscuit?”

“Mmm thank you,” Martin took one, dunking it in his tea.

“-and some man calling himself, 'the Doctor'. Doctor of what, though, I am yet to ascertain.”

“What is this place anyway?” Martin continued on oblivious, looking up at the ceiling with all its lights and now definite vines hanging down like they were in some kind of South American cave. “Groovy, yeah – I like it. Someone else has much better sets than us. Who is it then? Come on Ben.”

Benedict bashed his head back against the Tardis wall.

“This is really awesome,” Clara whispered to the Doctor, as he started stalking around his console. “But why have we stolen two actors again?”

The Doctor looked  _puzzled._ “We're about to go back and have a good ol' stab at solvin' one of the galaxy's greatest mysteries – the vanishing act of a whole household in middle England.” He snapped his fingers. “Poof! No trace of 'em left. No clues just a single, solitary little survivor. We need help. Enter James Watson and Sherlock Holmes!”

Martin Freeman dropped his cup and saucer, both of them shattering on the floor as the Tardis wheezed, its centre columns thrusting into life.

*~*~*

“Bigger on the inside!” Martin was standing outside the Tardis, pointing at the small blue box set in the snow. “Thanks.” He added, as Clara wrapped a very long, striped scarf around his neck.

Benedict circled the Tardis, one gloved hand on the blue wooden surface. He paused at the phone, inspecting it. “Why's a time machine got a phone?”

The Doctor shrugged. “In case someone calls.”

“You're a Time Lord from the future – and _that's your phone?_ ”

“I like it.”

“There is something wrong with you.”

“Bigger on the inside...” Martin whispered again, going in and out of the Tardis for the hundredth time since they'd landed. “Not a set piece.”

“Right!” Clara bounced back out onto the snow and closed the door before Martin could go back in again. “Ready. Got my hat.”

*~*~*

It was night and the snow was falling again, spinning through the air around them. The lights on the manor house were still aglow – candles burning by half of the windows and the lanterns at the front door lit. Animals shuffled in the barn to the side, locked up for the winter.

“It hasn't happened yet,” Clara whispered, pointing at the house.

“Any minute now,” the Doctor whispered, hiding behind a low wall, nudging the others to do the same.

“Sorry, probably a stupid question but why don't we just go inside and have a look? Then we'll know what exactly what happened.”

“Come now, detective. We'd be interfering with a fixed event. The universe doesn't like it when we do that. It has rules.” The Doctor replied. “Detective Holmes, what do you make of the house?”

“I'm not a -”

“Don't bother,” Clara whispered in Benedict's ear. “There's no point trying to correct him. When the Doctor gets a thought in his head it kinda gets stuck there. For the remainder of the evening, you're the non-fictional embodiment of Sherlock Holmes, whether you like it or not.”

Martin wandered up to them with that famous frown on his face. “We're not consulting detectives.”

“I know that, _you know that._..” Clara whispered to them, while the Doctor was off wandering toward the house. He was holding his sonic screwdriver up to bare skeletons of trees – its green light humming at the night. “ _He_ is convinced you are the two fictional private detectives – don't spoil his fun. It's Christmas.”

Benedict shrugged. “Fine. Just one question, why am I carrying a tray of biscuits and tea?”

 


End file.
